


Icarus and the Sun

by terminis



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Drowning, M/M, Metaphors, POV Second Person, They’re not actually Icarus and the Sun, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 13:59:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14854122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terminis/pseuds/terminis
Summary: You know you’re doomed to get too close and fall—You already are closer to him than you’d like—but you think that you’re fine with that. For he’s the sun, bright, glowing, beautiful, and you? You’re just an Icarus.





	Icarus and the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> There’s only one single dick joke in this, and that’s honestly better than my usual. As always, I have to make Maine and Wash suffer because it’s, well, Maine and Wash. I’m an angst demon.  
> [Beta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/qhiskey/pseuds/qhiskey)  
> 

You think that an appropriate title for Wash would be ‘the sun.’ That's who he is, it’s how he is. All of him. His hair is golden-blonde, his eyes seem to hold all of the warmth in the universe, and his smile lights up the ship.

You find yourself drawn to him, as so many are. You think that he’s befriended everyone on the ship, and you’re nearly sure of that. Maybe not 479er, but you don’t think that she’s friends with anyone. Still, you’ve caught her grinning about a few things he’s said. You know she’s being won over by him, too, for how can you not?

You don’t know how you feel about him, you don’t think there’s some emotion already set out that you know. It’s not a crush, you don’t think. You try to describe what he makes you feel, but it never really… Works. He’s the light at the end of the tunnel, the brightness after weeks of pitch black, the sweet cotton-candy pink, lavender purple, tangerine orange sunsets you used to see on your home planet, a bright, peppy pop song— All of the good stuff in the world. He makes you happy.

You think you make him happy, too, but you’re not sure. You’re pretty sure everything makes him happy. He gets completely elated over there being pancakes. You’ve caught him crying about cats a couple of times.

You like him. You do. Maybe he likes you. Maybe he doesn’t. You don’t know if anybody likes you. You don’t care about people liking you. You want him to like you, though, and that terrifies you.

Something even stranger? _You_ like _him._ You’ve never liked anyone before. You can’t tell why you like him. He‘s always happy, always an optimist. He acts like a child, but you know he’s intelligent. He does this little thing with his nose when he laughs, which he, thankfully, does a lot. And those shitty Director impressions that would surely make Carolina punch him—

You know you’re doomed to get too close and fall—You already are closer to him than you’d like—but you think that you’re fine with that. For he’s the sun, bright, glowing, beautiful, and you? You’re just an Icarus.

Maybe you do have a crush on him.

—

You’d been cornered in one of the hallways by a man no older than a boy wearing black and yellow armor, his helmet off. He’s covered with freckles and his hair is bleached terribly, dark roots obvious. A scar crossed down his eyebrow. He seemed to radiate happiness. He smelled like sunshine. You didn’t even know someone could smell like that before you met him.

The burning, massive sun outside the ship, coming in through the window, casted a weird effect on him. It made it look as if he was glowing.

The hallway lights on the ship flickered as he smiled at you, as they always did. You thought you’d seen him around before, but you weren’t too sure. Probably one that was on the lower ranks and had just got bumped up.

“My name’s Agent Washington!” He said, brightly, excitedly, sticking his, again, freckle covered hand out for you to shake. He looked so young, not any more than 20, definitely below drinking age. You didn’t think that anything had fucked him up yet.

You hoped anything hadn’t. He looked too nice to be hurt.

You looked at his outstretched hand, then dragged your eyes to his face. He looked so… Nice. Soft. Happy. There's still some fat on his cheeks. You didn’t know how he qualified to be a Freelancer. He had to be hiding something. Maybe he’s secretly ripped. Maybe he’s going to be the team’s distraction. You could find yourself getting distracted by him.

“He won’t shake it,” York, the guy that you sent to the infirmary however long ago told Wash, looking at you wearily, definitely afraid, probably scared that you’d hurt him again or something along those lines. You hadn’t made… That great of a first impression. York had tapped you on the shoulder and you pushed him so hard he flew. You didn’t remember when he got where you and sunshine boy stood. You should’ve been paying better attention.

“Oh,” Washington responded, hand falling down. He looked distraught. You felt as if he wasn't distraught often. You grabbed his hand and shook it, dropping it as quickly as you could. He stared at you, grin stretching out again, freckles looking like mini stars. You were overcome by beauty.

You turned on your heel and walked away, down the hallway, off to your room, leaving behind a speechless man and a new, excited, definitely weird teammate.

—

You’re not awake for being brought back.

You’re unconscious.

Reports say that you were brought back by 479er. That the Director was on the ship as you were wheeled down to the medbay.

Your fellow agents—Not your friends. They’d never been your friends—say that Wash was running with you the whole time. That he was trailing behind you, asking the medics questions, raising hell when they didn’t let him in. He had to be pushed back.

They told you this, when you first wake up. You’re surprised you didn’t forget it.

You wake up once more. Your throat is sore. You feel like you’ve gone ten rounds with Tex. You pry your eyes apart, the fluorescent lights seem to burn your eyes, pain shooting into your head. The place you’re in smells a disheartening amount like disinfectant. Medbay, then. Your eyes close.

You think you fall asleep, but you’re not sure. If or if not, when you wake up something’s weighing on the uncomfortable medbay bed. You open your eyes, however hard it might be, and blink.

A head of terribly dyed blond greets you. Wash’s head is down and he seems to be softly snoring. You try to lift a hand and find that he’s grabbing it.

He jumps up, woken up because you were moving, and hugs you. You wince and he falls back. “Holy shit!” He yells, breathless. His armor is off, dressed in plain black and yellow civvies, and you can see bandages poking out from beneath his clothing. You feel a flare of anger arise at the Insurrectionists for hurting him, and you’re slightly disappointed that you can’t kill them again. “I thought you were gonna die!”

He totally didn’t. If he had, he would’ve been much more subdued. You saw how he reacted to CT’s death. You smile lopsidedly at him and he grins back, eyes squinting. He hugs you again, but it doesn’t hurt.

A medic clears their throat. Wash stops embracing you and plops into the chair, casting happiness onto everything. Even the plastic plants that sat unperturbed on top of the gray, glass bedsides looked a bit nicer in his presence. He really was the sun.

“You won’t be able to talk again. Ever,” The medic tells you, getting right into the action. They go on a long tirade about your health. You ignore it. You’ve heard it, unfortunately, as it’s extremely boring everytime you hear it, thousands of times. Wash calls you a danger beacon.

You grunt. The medic pauses in their rant and stares at you angrily. They turn around and leave your small medbay room. The curtains that you’d find in a school nurse office close, giving you and Wash some semblance of privacy. Wash looks at you.

“I thought you were gonna die,” He murmurs. You’re once more struck by how pretty he is. His gray eyes shine in the light, like they were filled with some sort of liquid— Oh. He blinks hurriedly, leaning back from you. He wipes his eyes. “Sorry.”

You open your mouth to reassure him that it’s fine and find that you can’t. You can open your mouth, sure, but you can’t… Speak. Oh. Oh yeah.

Wash lays a hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently, smiling at you. He hoists himself onto the bed and you can almost feel a medic yelling at you. He buries his head on your shoulder. You push his head away and cup his face with a hand, a hand that you can now actually sort of move. You bring his face to yours and his dark eyelashes flutter closed as your lips connect for the first time. His lips taste like honey. You’re somehow not surprised, despite the fact that there’s no honey on the ship.

You have time to learn where he finds the honey. You have time to stay with him. There’s not some big mission that’s going to happen.

—

He’d been moving up through the ranks. He was at #7 when he first asked to train with you. A simple match with lockdown paint. 

You were on the training field, pistol clutched in hand, as he bounded onto the field. He was so… Good, so soft. You didn’t want to hurt him. You still didn’t know how he qualified to be a Freelancer. You were also still pretty sure he was too young. 

He bounced slightly to the tune of some old song that you can hear coming from his helmet as he grabbed a few training grenades, filled with the paint, off of the table. He took a pistol and turned around. You couldn't see his face, but you were almost certain he was smiling. The lights reflected in the visor of his helmet. You were pretty sure— No, you were sure, he was always smiling.

“Starting?” He called, pop still playing. You grunted in response. He turned off the music, shook his head slightly, and stretched. He asked F.I.L.S.S. to start the round.

The fight was brutal. He was down in the first minute, but he teared off the paint, which was covering half of his leg, and kept going. He was calm, focused. A worthy opponent, considering how young he was and how childish he acted.

Paint hit you in the shoulder and you were blown marginally back, maybe an inch. He didn’t seem surprised about how little you moved, launching himself at you as he tried his best to keep you from hitting him.

The lights were too bright. A grenade blew up, covering a good chunk of the field in a pretty, hard, glue-textured purple. You’d forgotten how badly it smelled; like a shit ton of chemicals, all blended into one thick substance. You avoided it carefully and tried to shoot him. He dodged.

You walked towards him, forced him down to the gunmetal gray training room floor, and fired three shots into his armor.

“Fuck,” He panted as F.I.L.S.S.’ automated voice rang out, announcing the end of the match. One point was awarded to you. His chest was covered in paint. You were pretty sure he was glued to the floor.

You put a hand out.

He took it.

You haul him up and he laughs brightly, beginning a speech about how good you were at fighting and how he’d have to get better so that he could try to catch up. He makes a remark about going to train with you more. You listened to him even as you walked off the field.

After that, you became closer.

You were glad about that. You still are.

—

Wash and you move past kissing pretty quickly. You can feel the ghost of his hands over your thighs, despite the fact it’s been a few days since you’ve gotten enough time to be alone.

You don’t even care much about the sex part of it. You’re just glad you have a reason to touch him, intimately and not.

Wash grins at you from against the table and you duck your head as you smile back. The other agents at the table—North and York—Look between the two of you, heads turned slightly in thought. They look at each other.

“They totally fucked, didn’t they?” York says. North puts a hand on his chin and looks to you. You stare back. North isn’t at all moved by your glaring.

“Hm… I’d say that they kissed,” North takes another glance between the two of you, Wash leaning on you while you try your best not to touch him too much. “At least,” North corrects. Wash turns bright red next to you and North laughs good-naturedly. He leans across the table to pat Wash’s shoulder.

York smiles. “Yeah, definitely. Who made the first move?”

“It’s not important!” Wash half-shouts. He’s completely red. You hide your smirk by taking another bite of the tasteless, chunky, gray soup. York drums his fingers against the table.

“So, Maine did?” York asks. He shoves a spoonful of soup into his mouth. Wash drops his head onto the gunmetal gray table with a bang. You pat his armored back reassuringly.

Wash murmurs something unintelligible, sun colored hair glowing, and you fight back another smile.

You like him. 

—

Wash had fought off the Insurrectionist that had been hounding you just barely, shooting her a couple times before he could help you make an escape. You were covered in your own blood by the time he and you found a good place to hide.

You pushed him away the second that you weren’t surrounded by foes. He fell flat on his ass and stared up at you. “You’re welcome,” He said, arms crossed childishly. You crossed your arms back. “I hope you know I’m sticking my tongue out at you!”

You processed the remark and were once more struck by just how young he was. “Yeah,” You murmured in response. Wash jumped up, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling of the cargo box you were hiding in. The logo outside read ‘Charon Industries’ in a neat, black font. The sun was streaming in through the box and it was burning. You could probably fry an egg on the floor of the empty box.

“You can talk?!” He asked, bouncing excitedly. You rolled your eyes, momentarily forgetting that he couldn’t see you. You ignore how hard you’re sweating.

An Insurrectionist charged in from behind Wash. He grabbed him and yanked his helmet off, holding a Magnum to his head. You stared at the Insurrectionist, before easily shooting him in the face. The enemy fell, splattering Wash’s face and armor with red.

“Welcome.” You grunted. Wash grinned, as always, seeming like the sun that was still steadily heating you up.

You turned away from him and went to fight some more.

—

You get Sigma. You don’t like him.

He’s good,. at first. He lets you do your own stuff, lets you retain control of your body. He doesn’t try talking for you much, unless you’re directly spoken to. Wash is off on a mission, so you don’t speak outside of that much anyways.

Now, though? He’s been taking control. Of everything. Sure, he helps you with statistics in training and whatever, but you don’t necessarily need that. And you don’t need him. You can speak with the one person you actually want to talk to without him.

He talks to the other Freelancers, too. Not for you. He feeds them pretty lies, gives them gossip, watches them begin to tear each other apart. You hate him.

You stop your thoughts, or, try to, and go to the balcony of the ship. Where Wash would always stand with you. You miss Wash. He’s only been gone for three days.

You run a hand down the black, metal bars and stare out the glass to the star-filled sky. The sun is bright and burning. You don’t look at it.

“Maine!” Someone calls from behind you. You turn around just as Wash jumps onto you. You just barely catch him. “Hey!”

You stare at him. He’s grinning, as always, and he’s looking at you with some… Emotion. In his eyes. You can’t seem to place it. He throws his arms around your neck and your heart beats faster. You hug him back.

Sigma flickers to life next to you. They’re both the sun, but in different ways. Sigma is burning and harsh. Wash is bright and gorgeous and when you look at him you think that it might hurt, but you can’t make yourself, you don’t want to, look away.

“I missed you!” Wash tells you, still hanging onto you. He hasn’t seemed to notice Sigma. You’re glad of that. Pain flares through your head. You release Wash from the crushing hold you had him in, having to stop nestling his wonderful smelling hair, and step back, hitting the railings.

“Hello, Agent Washington,” Sigma says, voice clear. He’s ready to hurt Wash. You can tell. You shift as Wash stared at you, head cocked.

“Already got someone new?” Wash jokes. You could never replace him. He knows that. He notices how quiet you’re being, how little you’re conveying. “Are you okay?”

“Agent Maine is fine. Please leave him be, as he wants to be alone,” Sigma says. You don’t want to be alone. You don’t want Wash to leave.

Wash stares at you, then at him. He looks back to you. “Maine?” He murmurs, voice quiet. He isn’t smiling. You try to reach out to him, to reassure him. Sigma’s controlling you now. Sigma’s controlling everything. Wash outstretches a hand to you, as if he wants to grab you or hug you or something, something nice, something that you miss—

“Agent Maine would like to be alone,” Sigma repeats. Wash looks to you, then to him.

“Okay.” He says. To Sigma. To the fire. You watch the sun turn away.

When he leaves the hall, it seems as if it gets darker. Though, that’s probably just how it seems to you. He lights up everything. He makes your life bright. When he’s gone, it’s obvious that it’s going to be more dim.

You want— No. You need him back.

Sigma won’t let you have him back.

—

Wash handed you a sandwich. You took it after a brief moment of staring at it. The bread was white and there was turkey. Wash had somehow gotten lettuce and cheese, which he had also put on it. It was positioned dramatically, as if it was food from a 5-star restaurant. Anything he made was from a 5-star restaurant.

“Aren’t you hungry?” He asked, biting into his own tuna fish sandwich. You stared at the sandwich Wash had made you. “Eat!” Wash said, mouth full. You pulled a gray barstool up to the also gray—Everything on the ship was gray, aside from Wash—counter, where Wash was sitting, and sat down next to him. You took a bite of the sandwich.

“Thanks,” You told him after swallowing the food. Wash nodded, twiddling a glinting butter knife with his spare hands. You pointed at the knife and raised a brow.

“Huh?” Wash said. You tapped the butter knife. Wash rubbed his neck, smiling. “Uh… Connie’s been teaching me how to do knife things.”

You grunted ambiguously. The lights on the ship flickered and Wash turned to you as he took another bite. He chewed for longer than necessary and smiled at you.

“Liked it?” He asked, looking at your empty plate. You smiled quickly and he leaned back. “You can smile!”

You nodded, confused. Of course you could smile. Everyone could smile. You just didn’t do it much. Wash took a sip from his red cup.

“You’re really cute when you do. When you smile,” Wash told you nonchalantly. He turned the color of the cup he was holding when he realized what he said. “I mean— That’s not what I meant—”

You laughed brightly and Wash looked to you as if you hung the moon.

“I’m glad I know you.” He said, and you weren’t really all that surprised that you had been thinking the exact same thing about him.

You placed a hand on his shoulder briefly, and smiled at him again. He smiled back, lighting up your world.

—

You can’t remember much. Sigma is gone. That’s all that you know.

But you’re still not… Yourself. You get urges. You don’t like them.

You’ve been trying to recover Epsilon for awhile now, with Washington. You’ve tried to talk to him. He doesn’t listen to you. He isn’t as sunny—Was he ever?—as he used to be. He’s callous now, cold.

He doesn’t smile.

That’s maybe the weirdest.

The ice on Sidewinder is cold. You don’t like it. You can’t… Remember it. There’s something that you did here.

Your sun—Washington. He's not your sun—Turns to you. “We need to get going. Epsilon should be by here.” His voice is rough and harsh. A memory comes, unbidden. To when his voice wasn’t harsh, to when he would say something and the world would stop to listen.

_—“Dance with me!” Your sun called happily, as if he was filled inside out with joy. A bright smile was painted across his face. He glowed. He grabbed your hand and—_

You shake your head. Washington stares at you, resting his gun on his shoulder. You hate that you can’t see his face. You don’t know what it looks like. Had you ever? The snow falls on his shoulders, white joining the gray and yellow. He shakes it off, like a cat would rain.

Wash—Washington—waves a hand in front of your face. You blink and lean back. “Let’s get going,” He snaps. You nod.

Doc looks to you, concerned. You stick your tongue out at him in a bout of childishness. As if he could see you. Something was wrong. You didn’t feel like yourself.

You hop into the back of the Warthog, at the gunner. Your boots make a loud noise as they hit the dark gray floor. Doc pulls himself into the driver's seat. Wash takes the final seat, and the Warthog rumbles to life.

You get to the crash site quicker than you thought. Wash gets out of the Warthog.

The field lights up around you, looking familiar. You realize what’s going on and try to jump out, to get away from the grenades—

You’re blown back.

Then something… Weird happens. Your body doesn’t seem to be your own. It feels like Sigma’s back, but he’s not. You’re free from that. Your brain is fighting you. Maybe something got messed up in the crash.

You fight back and you finally gain control just as—

Wash is slumped in the snow, against the Warthog. You look at him, confused. He looks back. His helmet got blown off. He has more scars now. You remember when he didn’t have as many. You remember a lot of things. Memories are coming to you at tenfold, giving you just a quick glance at them as they get replaced by three more and you can’t keep up—

_—Wash ran a hand over your head. “You ever considered growing it out?” He asked—_

Several yells sound from behind you. A knife is buried in your armor. Maybe it’s from Wash. He worked on knives with CT. You remember that, now.

_—Wash looked at your hands, then compared one to his. “Your hands aren’t the only thing that’s big,” He laughed as—_

You turn around, leaving Wash behind. He can fend for himself. You have to fight off these attackers. They might hurt the sun.

_—Wash gave you an old phone, smiling up at you. “Ever listened to this old earth band? It’s name is—_

You’re already firing as they come for you. You make a dome, anxiously looking at Wash. You have to keep him safe. The ice is hard to walk on. You hope you won’t fall.

_—“What's your name?” Wash asked one night, laying over you in your shared room. It was dark and you couldn’t see his face. You didn’t have anything to reply to him with. You didn’t remember your name. You didn’t even know if you had one. “I think Matthias is a pretty cool name,” Wash murmured, taking your hand—_

The fight passes in a blur. The memories stop coming. Well, you block them out as they run through your mind like frightened rabbits.

One of the enemies is talking to Wash. You need to get to Wash. You need to save Wash.

You get close to him, just barely close enough to touch, before you feel… Something. A hook is on your back.

‘No!’ You growl as you’re taken away from Wash, away from the sun, away from _your_ sun—

You fly off the cliff, and you have time to think as you fall.

You’re in love with him, you flew too close, and now you are paying.

You’re still not upset about that.

You plunge into the icy waters, and you’re certain of one thing.

He will live.

And, well. That’s all that matters to you.

—

“Hey, Maine?” Wash said one night as he and you were laying in bed together. Just sitting and enjoying the other’s company. This was after the voice loss and before Sigma. You can remember it clearly, the way Wash looked at you, how he smelled like strawberries, how soft his lips were—

You looked up from where you’d been trying to count the freckles on one of his hands. You grunted softly and continued counting, picking up his small hand in your massive ones.

“If I’m the sun, according to you,” Wash began.

‘Are,’ You corrected, peppering Wash’s hand in kisses. Wash pushed you away lightly, laughing. He didn’t talk again for some time, focused on just being with you.

Wash spoke up again as the light outside the ship began to turn darker. “If I’m the sun, what does that make you?” He asked quietly. You rolled over to face him and buried your head onto the little crevice between his neck and shoulder.

‘Icarus,’ You replied, voice muffled by his warm skin. Wash hummed for a second before pushing you away, once again.

“Isn’t that sad?” He murmured. You were still close enough to touch him. You ran a hand through his hair and he melted in the contact for a second before tapping your shoulder. “Is it?”

‘Yeah,’ You growled back, softly. Wash stared at you. You could just barely make out his dark gray eyes in the dim lighting. He blinked and reached a hand out. He pulled you closer.

“We’re not gonna be some tragedy, Maine,” He told you. He kissed your cheek, cupping your face with his soft hands. “We’re cooler than that.”

‘Yeah.’ You repeated.

—

But you got one.

Because he’s the sun, and every sun needs an Icarus. And every Icarus ends in tragedy. 

How you wish it didn’t.

The water seeps into your mouth through the holes in your armor, and you can’t see your sun, not anymore. You reach out, begging to be brought back, but you fall, deeper and deeper.

Your vision begins to fade. You start to choke on salt water. It’s filling everywhere, you can’t get rid of it and you can’t swim up, you’re too heavy and you’re doomed and the sun, the sun, the—

Oh, poor Icarus.

You should have known not to fall in love with him.

Because he’s bright, glowing, beautiful, and you? You’re nobody.

Not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> [hmu on tumblr](https://souths-armpit-hair.tumblr.com/)  
>  Comments and kudos are appreciated, though I care more about comments than kudos. After this, I’ll probably post one of my longer fics, once I finish it.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
